Faux Pas
by EnchanteRhea
Summary: A grievous mistake made unwittingly hurts all the same. [Kio, Soubi]


Disclaimer: Loveless is not mine. If it were mine, I would not be writing fanfiction.

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**Faux Pas**  
by Rhea Logan

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**faux pas**, (n.) - a socially awkward or tactless act

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Kio's apartment gives a stark, cold welcome, harsh lights beating all too brightly against his bleary eyes. Colors blur, contours melt into shapeless masses that vaguely resemble where he lives.

He shrugs out of his coat, kicks off his shoes and turns a blank stare at the floor beneath his feet. His breath echoes dully in the empty space between the walls; the faint flicker of hope at the sight of glowing lights dies upon his first, quick glance around.

_He's not here. It's the last place he would go to, isn't it? _

He should be sleeping – that thought tastes bittersweet, so longed-for – but not. His cluttered futon beckons, and Kio sighs. Cold fingers quivering, he treats his temples to a light massage, to ease the pain that has not left since last night. He should be turning to the lazy rhythm of a pleasant dream, warm under the quilt, blissfully unconcerned.

It's four in the morning and his head is spinning. He's lasted through two such nights in a row, but this one freezes him a little colder, frightens him a little deeper. It isn't getting any better – explanations fail to soothe him, excuses fall shorter and shorter with the dark gray promise of another dawn.

His bed jabs him with pins and needles when he tries to sit; Kio writhes uncomfortably as seconds roll past. They blink in and out of existence on the small display of his wristwatch; come and go, on and off. The phone feels hot in his hand, slick with sweat, and the long beep-beep of his unanswered call pierces his ear again. It started three days ago, and he can't help the onset of panic beginning to well up in his chest.

They have gone through an infinite number of ups and downs, but never like this. Never before has Soubi simply _disappeared_.

His eyes sting from the lack of sleep. His chest feels tight; it's hard to breathe, and Kio can't remember the last time he had a decent meal. But the very thought of food repels him and his stomach turns raw, twisting and shrinking with fear. It's been long – far too long – and he has memorized Soubi's voicemail message by now. It keeps mocking his worry in an automated voice; Soubi has never bothered with a custom one.

The standard _ 'The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable'_ chimes on, but Kio clicks it off.

Anger burns quickly, fueled by frustration and Kio barely resists the urge to hurl the phone against the wall. It slips out of his grasp onto the tousled bed sheets, his slack fingers letting go even as he tells himself that he should try again. 'This time, he'll pick up' and that god-damned voicemail have worked themselves into a consistent pattern in his mind. Soubi's phone should have died by now, for the number of unanswered calls Kio has made so far.

Through the open window, the wind darts in – a ruthless, freezing touch through the sweat-damp clothes on his back. Kio shivers as he bends to the floor to lift a long open can. The stale beer tastes bitter in his mouth – or maybe it's the fear, a crude layer on his tongue – he downs it anyway. The phone returns to its place between his shoulder and his cheek. His trembling finger finds the redial button; Kio holds his breath as he waits.

Another dead end.

He grits his teeth and clenches his fists. He will spare the phone – he still needs it, after all - but this angry panic takes the better of him and he kicks the can instead. It rattles against the floor, a clatter in unison with his shuddering breath.

Pacing back and forth helps little – he has done enough of that since yesterday – but restlessness reigns supreme. Trembling limbs compel him to keep moving, to ease the tension within. Last night, the nets of sleep entangled him in nightmares – gory images of Soubi bleeding, dying in his hands. They riddle his memories today, and Kio scowls as he tries to force them out of his mind. It's a never-ending struggle of reason against imagination, but he can't work up the energy to help the former win this losing battle.

_Yielding, _ he thinks, _has never felt this good, even if it hurts. _

The dreary gloom beyond the window slowly melts into a paler, sickly shade. Kio squeezes the phone tightly in his hand as he collapses on the bed. It's pointless and cruel, this worry; he should not have let it sweep him away again.

The last thought rings in his head before his eyes slide shut: Soubi is an _adult_, for pity's sake - if not a bloody idiot who has no idea what he does to Kio's heart.

:

The alarm clock screams too soon – too loud – Kio sits upright, grabs and clings to it like to the savior it's not.

His hands dive for a blind search through the blanket folds. It should have been _the call – Kio, stop calling me all night – I'm fine_ – but his wishful thoughts die as he stares at the blurred display of his cell. His dry mouth tastes bitter; his tongue is stiff, his stomach aches and turns with nauseating turmoil from the lack of food and excess stress.

Lollipops never made him sick before, but now he spits out the one he has just unwrapped and clasps a trembling hand over his mouth. He curls in on himself. _Soubi_, he thinks, _that's enough. Stop playing this game. _

One more desperate call, and the steady tone sets the rhythm for the day. Kio's heart hammers a measured unrest, and sinks as the dreaded voicemail brings his hopeful waiting to another hopeless end. Nothing's changed; this was not a twisted dream, and he is wide awake. He's out of ideas where to run, where to search, and he curses – a loud string of harsh words, let loose to ease his mind.

It helps little, if at all. Crude expressions crack his voice.

_This is where it ends. _

This end... is another beginning, its first sketchy lines drawn by Kio's long shadow cast upon the doorstep as he leaves his apartment. He knows his direction by heart, destination picked against the logic of his foggy mind. It barks a distant reprimand; warnings about projects, deadlines, the class he's missing as he pushes his way through the morning crowds.

He counts the tones, this time, and disconnects the call after five. The cheerful falsity of the subsequent message has accompanied him long enough.

_Breathe_, he scolds himself as he climbs the staircase to Soubi's apartment - far slower than usual, dizzy and starving and on the verge of tears. He doesn't even know why he's here. He has developed a plan to steal Soubi's keys when – _if_ – he finds him, to take his mind off the unpleasant things. Yesterday, he spent too many hours waiting on this doorstep. It yielded nothing but annoyance before it morphed into this numbing fear.

His hand lingers in midair, the last defense against another promise of crushing disappointment but, finally, he knocks. The door and the room beyond answer with hollow resonance. The commotion of the street swallows it and Kio stands, fists clenched, dying determination all but spent. The time-carved cracks in aged wood blur before his eyes; they lose focus, as does his mind.

Silence chills him down to the core of his spine; expectations, when they shatter, do not make a sound.

Soubi's name on his lips makes them crack and bleed. Or does it? He has only bitten down on them a little too hard. Back to square one, he falls backward against the door and almost slumps down, grasping the door knob for balance—

—the lock gives way easily and Kio awkwardly half-stumbles inside.

His breath catches and Kio blinks to see through the half-darkness and the mist over his eyes. The air is stuffy here; he swallows hard to tame the violent waves of persisting nausea. It doesn't feel right – there should be sunshine, pouring through the open blinds – but they are tightly drawn. Tendrils of black shadows crawl across the floor, bleed into the corners, as if to hide within the walls.

A trail of muddy footprints catches his eye, and he hears a sigh – although quiet, it's an earsplitting surprise.

He doesn't need to turn; he can feel Soubi now, keen ears pick up on the soft whisper of cloth, another heave of breath. For a second his body grows numb; he could collapse and cry, but only a choked, "Sou-chan--" escapes.

The name dies in Kio's throat as he turns around. Himself a shadow, Soubi lifts his head.

A hot flush washes across Kio's face; he is panting now, still looking for words that boil viciously at the back of his mind. So, he's alive – and he looks fine, at least at first sight. But his face is a mask; he might or might not be watching Kio from half-closed eyes.

His frozen shell breaks at its frail seams – his speech returns and Kio hears himself shout, "You _idiot_!" as he runs across the room and drops, in front of Soubi, to his knees. "I thought—" tears well up quickly but Kio holds them back. "—thought you—" he stumbles upon the flood of momentary shame and second thoughts. Then: _you deserve to hear this_– "—died..."

The still form that is Soubi, propped against the wall, could very well be dead, for the lack of reaction to Kio's quivering words. Glassy eyes look past him, indifferent, and he wonders what they see – not him, not likely, not even when Kio grabs his shoulder and shakes him a bit.

"Soubi!" He knows he's yelling, the sound unpleasant even to his own ears, but it's been _too long_, and he can't help himself. "What were you _thinking?_ I've been-- looking for you... for _three days_."

He doesn't want to cry, but his voice plays traitor – this pain within is anger, a burning rage that even relief at seeing Soubi in one piece can't ease.

Soubi's lips open to offer a faltering apology, too quiet to hear – Kio knows it's there. He has heard it too many times before. But Soubi has no drive to speak when he looks like this, and the vicious circle of lies and silence entraps them both again. It's something inside him, he has already learned, that Soubi knows he _should_ say but whether he really means it, Kio cannot guess.

He shoves himself up and sways on his feet. This is madness, and he's dreaming; Soubi isn't there and neither is he.

He grabs a fistful of his own hair and pulls – his head pounds with frantic thoughts of _wake up – don't look - just breathe._ He glances aslant, along the trails of shadows forming at his feet and then he sees it – Soubi's cell phone, discarded in the shadow-rimmed corner. He makes a dash for it, almost falling forward as he bends and lifts it with a shaking hand.

The crack across the display tells a silent tale of a violent landing. Kio stares, wide-eyed, at the letters blending into each other under the disfigured glass. This number, one-two-nine, has never had any particular significance - until now. He swallows around a thick knot in his throat, draws air greedily, as deeply as his lungs allow. His head whips around, wild eyes seeping accusations he can't contain inside.

"This time, you outdid yourself." Kio's slurred words dissolve in the ragged sound of his panting breath. _He didn't... even..._ "Just how much does it cost you to pick up the phone?" He clenches his fists, fingernails scraping the skin-- _...didn't spare all my calls even one damn look. _

But he says instead, "This needs to _stop_, Soubi," because voicing his thoughts would crush the feeble remnants of his self control. "You've lost your mind, too bad. I want to keep mine. And where the hell have you been all this time?"

Soubi's silence drives him mad. Kio slams his fists into the cabinet at his side even as a soft whisper carries Seimei's name.

It's a trigger – it has always been, and he lets himself go: "I wish—I wish that brat would go away, whatever – he could die – wish he'd just vanish from your life. And from mine." He swings his arm and jumps - his hand hits, knocks over something hard. A small frame topples over and falls, wood on wood and shattered glass.

Kio holds his breath, suddenly loath to look his way as Soubi powers to his feet. Soubi's glasses slide down and land on the floor with a muffled sound. His face looks younger without them, more vulnerable, but his eyes hold none of that – a terrifying, far-off stare forces Kio to look up.

"I'm sorry," he mutters quietly, trying to keep himself from turning away.

This battle he loses - Aoyagi's cursed face stares back at him from the picture as Kio glances downward at the scattered shards. Soubi towers over him, still silent, a sharp glint of coldness in his eyes. Kio's frantic anger dissolves in fear that winds and coils inside him, and bitter understanding ends the whirlwind of his inner world.

He has laid a graceless hand on that which was not his to approach – much less to destroy.

He can only watch as Soubi retrieves his battered phone from Kio's stiff grasp. The gentleness he loves is gone from Soubi's face, pale eyes deliver their wordless contempt. The sight of reddened bandages twists Kio's gut – he can see them all too clearly, streaks of dry blood hiding in the gaping collar of Soubi's shirt.

Soubi speaks softly as he turns around. He must be furious, although he hides it well. His voice sounds hollow-- "Don't call me," he says, "I'm waiting for someone else."

"Sou--" Kio's voice dies in his throat. Soubi's heavy footfalls resonate between them. "I'm..." The door slams shut and Kio nearly chokes on his own halted words.

He closes his eyes against the pounding in his head. The thud screams in his ears through the rush of blood, Soubi's words a brutal reflection of his misgivings, concealed beneath the lies of clumsiness and haste.

Broken glass crunches under his boots and Kio shudders, too numb to understand, if not too tired to care. He takes a careful step away – he will remove this proof of envy before Soubi returns – and leans against the hanging shelves. His breathing has yet to calm down and he wonders if it will, for the burning of tears and the ache in his heart.

Yesterday's newspaper glares at him with catchy titles in thick, clear-cut black. Kio skims them, listlessly, until a familiar, despised name catches his eye. He frowns and looks away, but he can't turn back – he's in this too deep, deliberately or not.

The wrinkled paper, littered with bloody stains, rustles in his hand. Kio turns his head, burning eyes shut against the one headline he can't expel from his mind.

_Seventeen year old burned alive. _

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April 9-12th, 2006 


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